Six Monks In a Rowboat
by CaraLee934
Summary: A simple, slightly introspective piece on Methos. Takes place after "Till Death" and prompted by the titular comment made by Methos in said episode. Contains a brief appearance by Joe Dawson.


**I do not own Highlander.**

**WARNINGS: Methos brooding. Beer. (Please note that I agree with neither alcoholic self-medication, nor many elements of Methos' worldview. All opinions expressed herein belong to him and him alone.**

**I've had this, half-finished in my files for well over a year, and then was prompted by a conversation with the lovely marmota-b (Be sure and check her out!) to clean it up and post it. Enjoy!**

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Six_ Irish monks in a rowboat_. Methos snorted. _Sounds like the beginning to a bad joke._ He drained his cheap American beer before dropping the empty bottle and watching it roll off the rooftop where he was perched. Grabbing another bottle from the cooler, he popped the cap and flopped backwards so that he was lying flat on the roof, looking at the stars.

_Six monks in a rowboat. No facilities._ Yeah, it made a nice (if disgusting) story. Yeah, it was partly true, he _had_ been in that boat to Iceland. But his dislike (_Be honest with yourself at least. For once._) his _fear_ of the ocean went back much farther than that.

_Much, much farther._

It belonged to Before.

He didn't know why he feared the water. He couldn't remember why. One of many things he couldn't remember. Like where he came from, his real name, his age when he first died, how he first died, how old he really was.

His first memory was of taking a head. He didn't even know who it had been. He just remembered the quickening, the pain blending with the ecstasy. Then came what seemed like ages of wandering, afraid of everyone and everything, fighting for survival in every way possible.

Then he was a healer, then Pharaoh for a time, then a slave, then Death. A father, a husband, an enemy, a son, a rival, a friend, an ally, a god, he had been them all. After Death came Greece, then Rome, Judea, Rome again, Britannia, Rome again, Britain again.

Even those days that he did remember, they all blurred sometimes. Faces, names, cities, countries, families, causes, wounds and deaths, they all became jumbled. No order, chronological or otherwise.

Other times he remembered everything clearly, too clearly. Every pain, every joy, every loss stood out bright and clear. Zariah and her tribe slaughtered by the Pharaoh's men. (And he along with them.)

Samum, patiently teaching him how to treat what was known today as pneumonia as Arwi-a watched curiously from the bench in the corner, her brown eyes sparkling in her chubby little baby-face with excitement at seeing her father and his apprentice work.

Mademoiselle Theresa, dancing, shining brighter than any other woman on the ballroom floor.

Waking bloody in the ruins of the village that had been sacked and burned by the Seawolves.

Mytis, determined to show that she could argue politics as well as he.

Little Jerusha and her brothers, sneaking him food as he hid from his pursuers (though he had no memory of whom he had been running from.)

Scrambling and fighting desperately for his head against an iron-faced Immortal Legionary.

Will, his first American friend, who had died at Brandywine.

"Hey! You going to bring that cooler down here old man?"

Rudely shaken from his memories, Methos peered over the edge of the roof to where Joe stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by empty beer bottles and shards of broken glass. _Had he really drunk that much already?_

"Mac called me, was complaining about some antique vase." Joe raised an eyebrow at him. "Wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Methos allowed a small, smug smile to creep over his face. "Haven't the foggiest."

And the clouds were banished for the time being as he nimbly made his way back to the ground, cooler in one hand, half-full bottle in the other. Because Joe was there and something he had learned over the millennia was that a true friendship was rare, and something to be treasured.

Even if you could never fully trust them.

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**A/N: For this edition of CaraLee934 rambling on pointlessly...**

**The Battle of Brandywine was fought in September of 1777, the Continental Army was defeated and the British marched into Philadelphia. The Americans did have an organized retreat though, due to the efforts of ********Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de La Fayett**e, the random teenage French noble who'd showed up in America and been appointed a general in the Continental Army. Brandywine was his first command and he was actually given a real command afterwards, whereas before he had been there mostly for decoration.

**Yes, I have a complete headcannon for Methos' origin. Yes, I might get it written someday. I do, however, have many, more urgent matters demanding my attention, including getting the next chapter for Cýððu up.**

**Special thanks to marmota-b for reminding me that I even wrote this one-shot at all!**

**Please review, I have a pet dragon named Bob and he loves reviews. They're his favorite treat!**


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